Warren Adler - The War of the Roses

Goldstein listened patiently, puffing and nodding, his cigar dead center between his lips, his fat fingers cast in a delicate cathedral.

When he was finished, Oliver popped a Maalox into his mouth. The ex-rabbi destroyed his cathedral and put his smoldering cigar into an ashtray. Nodding, he stood up, reached for a yellow legal pad, and began to shoot questions at Oliver.

‘Is there another man?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Whoever thinks so? And no other woman?’

‘None.’

‘And joint property?’

‘The house, of course, and all the antiques and other possessions in it. That’s where we put everything we had. I’d say the house might fetch at least a half a million, with probably another half – or more – in antiques. God, did we lavish love on that place.’ His eyes misted.

Goldstein noddedj as if he were a psychoanalyst listening to a patient unreel his life.

‘What are you prepared to settle for, Mr. Rose?’ Goldstein asked, the gentleness gone.

‘I’m not really sure. I haven’t had time to think about

it. I really don’t know. I don’t think the kids will be a problem. I earn a good living. I want them to be comfortable. I’m prepared to offer reasonable support.’

‘And the house?’ Goldstein asked.

‘I don’t know. Say half the value. After all, we did it together. Half of everything is okay with me.’

‘You want a good divorce settlement or do you want to be sentimental? If you want to be sentimental, then you shouldn’t get a divorce. In fact, I would rather you didn’t. I hate these situations where children go from pillar to post like punching bags. Children are supposed to be a brucha. ’ He looked at Oliver and shook his head. ‘A blessing.’

‘Look, Goldstein. It’s not my idea.’ He felt the blood rise in his face.

‘I understand.’ Goldstein flapped a pudgy hand. ‘You must be calm. Don’t excite yourself.’ Oliver felt him taking charge.

‘I know what that means,’ Oliver huffed. ‘You want it short and sweet. No problems. No headaches. A nice fat fee.’

‘From your mouth to God’s ears.’

‘I hope she feels the same way.’

‘Never be sure,’ Goldstein said. ‘It is the first rule of domestic law. Never be sure. Divorce makes people crazy.’

‘Well, it won’t make me crazy,’ Oliver muttered. ‘If it’s meant to be, then let’s get it over. You just proceed along the fastest track.’

‘There’s a waiting period for a no-fault divorce in the District of Columbia. Six months if the parties don’t contest. That’s the quick way. If there’s problems, there’s a year wait. A divorce you get either way. But the property settlement is separate. It could go on and on. If it goes to court, there’s more waiting. A judge decides.’ Goldstein bent over, blowing smoke. ‘All judges are putzes.’

Oliver nodded. It was going too fast. ‘It won’t come to that.’

‘You hope.’

‘We’re reasonable people.’

‘That was yesterday.’

‘I know lawyers. They can fuck things up. They call Thurmont the Bomber.’

‘Personally, I have mixed feelings. A court battle can help make me an even richer man. I have a loving devoted family, Mr. Rose.’ He looked longingly at the picture of his rotund children and obese wife. They are all going to college now. I have a very large house in Potomac and a maid that lives in, two Mercedes, and I go to Israel twice a year. Harry Thurmont has all these things and, in addition, an airplane and a house in Saint Thomas and he’s always very tan, which means he gets away often.’

‘I don’t need the lecture, Goldstein. I’m also a lawyer.’

‘The worst kind. You need the lecture more than a plumber. We can chop up your estate like scavengers and leave you nothing but the bare bones.’ Goldstein’s cigar had gone out, and Oliver caught a whiff of his bad breath.

‘All right, you’ve scared the shit out of me, Goldstein. I already told you I want to settle this amicably. No hassle. I detest the idea of anyone getting rich from my misfortune.’

Goldstein relit his cigar, puffed deeply, and exhaled smoke clouds into the atmosphere.

‘I’ll talk to Thurmont and get back to you,’ Goldstein said, getting up. ‘From here on in, we talk to your wife only through Thurmont.’

‘And I pay for both?’

‘I don’t make the rules.’

‘Just the money.’

‘I don’t make the divorces, either.’

‘But it wasn’t my fault,’ Oliver protested.

‘It was mine?’

Oliver, sorry now he had engaged Goldstein, was more confused than ever.

‘Have you moved out yet?’ Goldstein asked as Oliver rose.

‘No. Perhaps tonight. I can’t seem to manage it.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Oliver replied, wondering about his candor. ‘It’s my nest. I can’t seem to fly away. It’s my place, Goldstein. My orchids. My wines. My workshop. My Staffordshire figures are there.’

‘Your what?’

‘Little porcelainlike figures, beautifully painted. There’s a cobalt blue -’

‘I don’t understand this, Rose,’ Goldstein interrupted.

‘I don’t either. None of it.’ Never in his life had he been racked with such indecision. He searched Goldstein’s eyes for direction. Through droopy lids, they stared back lugubriously. Their look depressed him.

‘I need time,’ Oliver said after a long pause.

‘Time we got.’

‘Have we?’ Oliver asked. It seemed his first rational thought of the day. ‘I just threw out nearly twenty years.’ He felt too overcome to continue. ‘When you speak to Thurmont, call me,’ he muttered as he left the office, not certain of his destination.

I can’t believe it,’ Eve said. She had intruded on Ann, who was working on a bibliography for her thesis, ‘Jefferson as Secretary of State,’ just at that point when the number of books to read and sources to check seemed overwhelming. Ann was in no mood to be provoked by the perpetual crises of a teenage girl and had learned not to be panicked by Eve’s propensity for dramatic overstatement.

But she looked up and saw in Eve’s misty-eyed face an agitation that engaged her attention. Eve bent over her seated form and embraced her, putting her cheek against her own. Patting her head, Ann waited for Eve to unburden herself.

‘They’ve split,’ she said, unable to hold back a chest-racking brace of sobs.

‘Hey, what’s this?’ Ann said, turning and embracing the troubled girl. She waited until her caress soothed her.

‘Mom and Dad. They’ve decided to go their separate ways,’ Eve said when she was able to speak.

Ann, of course, knew what had happened. But the idea hadn’t quite sunk in. It was the unthinkable incarnate. She continued to deny it to herself. No one is prepared for a suddenly realized fantasy. She began to feel the full impact of her guilt.

‘I’m sure it’s temporary,’ Ann said quietly. Some secret, transient tension, she decided, not being privy to what really went on between them. ‘Married people are always having spats/ She had never seen them raise their voices to each other.

‘Not a spat, Ann,’ Eve said, finding her self-control. She seemed to be teetering on the edge of maturity. Such events, Ann knew, could be a catalyst, forcing adulthood. Eve sat on the edge of the sleigh bed and lit a cigarette, picking an errant tobacco crumb from her tongue.

‘It was a declaration of independence, Ann,’ Eve said, clouds of smoke pouring out with her words. ‘I didn’t know who she was, although I knew what she meant. She said it wouldn’t affect my relationship with Dad, that it was all going to be very civilized and understanding. She was sure of that.’ Eve shook her head and sighed as Ann waited for her to continue. But what was the real reason? she wanted to ask. Eve seemed to read her mind.